


The Fallen Starchild

by PrincessErii



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Collect your dadza content here, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fox Fundy, Gen, Might be a bit ooc, Phil has wings, Scratch that it’s definitely ooc jeez the SMP lore took a turn recently, Starchild Dream, Think of this as the Moomins meets Princess Kaguya meets Dream SMP, What even is canon amirite?, a bit of angst too, fairy Tubbo, forest spirit techno, guardian spirit philza, guardian spirit wilbur, i was channeling my inner Tove Jansson when I wrote this, longfic, lots of fluff, shadow spirit ranboo, so does quackity later on, star-child niki, star-child tommy, wingfic (sort of)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:34:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28360233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessErii/pseuds/PrincessErii
Summary: “Who are you?” he stammers, frowning.Fundy sits down, the tip of his tail flicking back and forth cautiously. “A few locals. What about yourself?”The boy’s mouth quivers, his eyes widening. He looks down. Words almost from on the top of his tongue but all that comes out are halted stutters. His hands tremble; he lifts them in front of his face, his gaze flicking over each digit and both palms.“I...” he murmurs, “...I don’t know.”—In a valley of spirits, a mysterious boy appears. He isn’t from the groundland, but rather the stars. Strangely though, he has  no memories from before he fell out of the sky. Taken in by the valley’s guardian spirit Phil, it soon becomes clear that the boy isn’t safe. The stars are after him and they want to take him home, where their magic will force him to forget not only his time on the ground but also his new friends and family.(If any of the ccs want me to remove this story, I will do so immediately. No offence is intended)
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 360





	1. The Valley of Spirits

The stars always shine brighter on the solstice. Their glimmers erupt into kaleidoscopes which dance across the night sky, filling the abyss of the heavens with life. Most keep their distance, shining from afar. Others dare to venture closer, skimming the groundland with their fingertips as if they’re dipping their hands in water. Shimmering trails fly behind them, a brief reminder of their passing.

A clang of cogs echoes into the nighttime. In the middle of a snow-covered meadow, the wooden panels of an observatory pull back. The eye of a large brass telescope juts out, its frame flimsy but just about holding together. Pointing towards the divine procession across the sky, the final gears and sprockets settle into place.

Phil’s breath catches the first time his gaze lands upon the stars. Even without using the telescope, the sheer serenity of the riders is visible from far away. Exhaling, the grey mist of his breath obscures the light. He rests his hands inside the folds of his green robe, his wings wrapping around his body as he continues to stare upwards. His feathers are thinner than they were last year. The frigid midwinter pierces through them a little more every solstice. Still, he remains without a candle or lantern, allowing only the natural shine of the stars to illuminate his observatory.

“Maybe this year...” he mumbles, pulling up a three-legged stool. Easing himself down, he winces at the cracking noises his joints make. “Four-hundred years finally getting to you, there?” He laughs to himself.

He isn’t ‘old’, at least not by spirit standards. He’s simply ‘middle-aged’. Yes, that’s it. Even then, his sighs ring in his ears every time he moves too quickly or the bases of his wings ache when he flaps them out before preening. Pushing any thoughts of his own age from his mind, he resigns himself to his seat and gazes into the telescope.

**§§§**

“Are we nearly there yet?”

Fundy grumbles. “Tubbo, ask me that one more time and I’m leaving you here.”

The noise that leaves Tubbo’s mouth sounds more fed up than a troll denied a riddle under a bridge. His tiny bee wings buzz for a couple of moments and his antennae flick down to the sides of his fairy face. He pulls on them, lying in his stomach on top of Fundy’s head between the fox’s ears. The pale orange winter fur is surprisingly warm; he buries most of his body in it, only his head poking out to see the untrodden, snow-covered path through the woods.

“Ranboo,” he says, “where are we?”

Behind the fairy and the fox, the shadows of the bare trees shudder. A shape moves among them, his steps not even breaking the powdery layer of top-snow (a sentiment that cannot be shared by the deep paw prints Fundy leaves in his wake). A single green eye indicates that a spirit is near.

A tall, lanky creature approaches the duo. He’s dressed oddly smart for a spirit, donning a suit and tie. One side of his face is as dark as the depths of an unlit cave, streaked with thin purple veins that run under his skin. The other half is so pale it almost blends in with the surrounding snow, only distinguished by a blood red eye. In his hands he’s carrying a wicker basket filled to bursting with various sweet treats, covered with a red and white checker blanket.

He speaks, his voice low and cautious. “This is the domain of the Guardian,” he says, “the one with the green clothes.”

Tubbo’s antennae perk up. “You mean Phil? Cool! We’re nearly there, then.”

A cold wind whistles through the trees. Snow scatters to the ground, disturbing the pristine surface. Fundy stops in his tracks, a shiver running all the way through him. Tubbo similarly winces with cold, pulling his bee-fuzz coat around him. Ranboo, somehow, stands unaffected. Within a few moments, the cold spell passes, leaving the three standing stock still in the middle of the winter woods. 

“Damn cold,” Fundy mutters, swishing his tail and turning up his chin. “It could at least be a spirit or a ghost coming to haunt us. Not just the wind!”

Tubbo slips down the fox’s back, coming to an abrupt stop only when he grabs ahold of some fur. “Hey, hey! You’ve got a rider here,” he buzzes. “Passenger on board-“

He stops.

The night sky high above is beautiful. An endless palette of twinkling colours parades all the way from the treetops to the middle of the sky. Like a canvas of magic, it gleams with the radiance of freshly polished jewels strung in a million necklaces. Emeralds and sapphires, amethysts and topazes, they all shine together to light up the night. Some descend from their seats in the heavens, gracing the top of the world with their presence — shooting stars. A lot of them.

The others have noticed too. For several seconds, silence descends upon them all, the sky hypnotising them. Tubbo reaches a hand out, his wings beating until he’s hovering up and up. Just before he flies higher than Ranboo’s head though, he stops himself. Those stars — those spirits — are too far away to ever reach, especially for a fairy like himself. He makes do resting down on Ranboo’s shoulder, leaning into the tall spirit’s neck. A strange calmness washes over him, strange because there’s an emptiness to it, as if he’s staring at something he’s lost even though he’s never had it to begin with.

Suddenly, Fundy’s ears prick up. He tears his eyes from the sky. “What was that?” He asks.

“What was what?” asks Tubbo.

“That noise,” Fundy is already pacing around the path, peering between the trees.

“Noise? I didn’t hear anything.”

“Wait,” Ranboo lifts a clawed hand to hush the fairy. “I heard something too...someone’s here.”

Tubbo’s fingers tense around the material of Ranboo’s collar. Someone else? As in, someone besides the three of them? Who in the world would be out here so late at night in the middle of winter?

Fundy takes off. The snow kicks up behind him. He bounds out of sight between the tree trunks. Swallowing hard, Tubbo pulls himself closer to Ranboo. His little heart is racing in his chest. All of a sudden, these woods aren’t calm or quiet. Something is out there and he can’t see it. Whatever it is, perhaps finding out wouldn’t be the best idea.

Not that he has much of a choice, however.

“Hold on,” Ranboo says.

The next thing Tubbo knows, the shadow spirit is chasing after the fox. His strides are silent and he barely has to run to catch up to Fundy. Still, to the fairy, the woods shoot past as if he were flying at full speed. He holds his breath and scrunches up his face, the tail of his coat flapping about behind him and his wings plastered against his back lest the drag pull them off.

Through the woods the spirits run, making barely a disturbance to the natural world around them. Closer and closer to the source of the sound they get. For what seems like a lifetime Tubbo bares the bite of the cold against his skin as he holds onto Ranboo’s collar for dear life.

And then, Ranboo halts. The force of the stop is like whiplash, almost sending Tubbo flying. Luckily, the fairy saves himself at the last moment, beating his wings and tightening his grip even more. His eyes bolt open. The snow is bright from reflecting the starlight. He blinks a few times, rubbing his eyes. Only then does he see that not only has Ranboo stopped. Fundy has too. Both are staring directly ahead towards a clearing in the trees.

Someone’s there. A boy, standing in the middle of the clearing. Tubbo squints, leaning forward. The boy isn’t familiar. Not in the lightest.

His hair is short and blond, wavering in the wintry wind. A lightly freckled face is turned towards the stars, crystalline blue eyes gazing at the parade high above. Over his shoulders a thin white cloak drapes off his slim figure, collecting in folds at his bare feet half-buried in snow. He doesn’tshiver with cold though, rather remaining still and unperturbed. A silvery, star-shaped pin is clasped around his neck, holding the cloak together. Underneath, a pure white shirt and pants seem perfectly tailored to his frame, embroidered with swirling patterns that shimmer like starlight with every micro-movement he makes.

There’s an atmosphere about him too. It’s warm like a sunbeam, welcoming to anyone who gazes upon him. However, there’s somehow also a frigidness about him. An empty feeling once again rises in Tubbo’s gut. Merely looking at the boy is enough to make his skin prickle. The boy may be standing a few metres ahead but he might as well be a million miles away.

It’s Fundy who first catches the boy’s attention, clearing his throat and swishing his tail. “Excuse me?” he asks pointedly.

The boy immediately hears. His trance from the sky shatters. His head darts around until he sees the party of spirits at the edge of the clearing. Silence descends.

There’s a much clearer angle on him now. He isn’t an elf. His ears aren’t pointed. He isn’t a gnome or a goblin either. Perhaps a gremlin? Apparently they can grow quite tall given the right environment.

“Who are you?” he stammers, frowning.

Fundy sits down, the tip of his tail flicking back and forth cautiously. “A few locals. What about yourself?”

The boy’s mouth quivers, his eyes widening. He looks down. Words almost from on the top of his tongue but all that comes out are halted stutters. His hands tremble; he lifts them in front of his face, his gaze flicking over each digit and both palms.

“I...” he murmurs, “...I don’t know.”

His eyelids flutter. His knees buckle. Suddenly, he falls to the ground in a heap of fabric, crunching the snow beneath him.

Tubbo moves before he can think. His little wings propel him all the way over to the boy, that emptiness from before giving way to worry. The boy is lying on his side, still breathing but no longer conscious. His bare hands and feet are red with cold and his cheeks are losing their colour to a harsh frostiness.

“Ranboo, Fundy,” Tubbo says quickly, landing on the boy’s shoulder, “he’s completely out!”

The next person to join him is Ranboo, who kneels down by the boy’s back. Even crouching, the spirit looms over everyone else there as if he were a lone tree in a meadow. Carefully, he rolls the boy over and scoops him up in his lanky arms, wary of the sharpness of his own claws.

“He’s cold,” are the only words the spirit can form, his brow lacing with confusion.

“Fundy,” Tubbo says, “run ahead to Phil. We’ll bring this guy with us.”

Fundy scowls. “But-“

“We might not have a lot of time. Please, Fundy.”

A couple more moments of tense silence later and the fox dips his head, sighing. “Fine,” he says.

Turning in his hind paws, he darts back off between the trees. The crunch of snow gradually disappears with him until all that can be heard is the wind rustling the frozen branches. In the sky, the shooting stars have ridden past their peak, many now having returned to the far away heavens. Dark clouds roll over the horizon, not quite reaching the valley just yet, however as Ranboo stands, cradling the nameless boy, an ominous feeling settles over the spirits.

Perhaps Phil will have answers to the questions forming in their minds?


	2. A Cozy Evening Gone Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s technically Wednesday for me now so I’m gonna post! Updates will most likely be Wednesdays and Sundays although sometimes I might only post once a week depending on how busy I am. I have written a few chapters ahead but I might catch up with myself so who knows. Anyways, enjoy!
> 
> P.S — the woman in the chapter is Niki but she won’t get named for a long while

Wilbur closes the cupboard door, setting an almost-empty coco jar on the counter top. It’s a shame, really. The next delivery won’t come until the snow melts in spring. Looking out of the kitchen window, between the hanging bunches of dried rosemary and bay leaves, the first flakes of a new snow flutter down from the sky. Dark clouds now completely cover the night. Phil’s stargazing session won’t have lasted long.

In the fireplace behind Wilbur, a log shifts. A crack of sparks swirls up the chimney, catching in the howling wind that blows smoke far away from the observatory. Shadows dance across the walls, growing and shrinking with every flicker of firelight. A small cauldron of hot milk simmers away over the heat and two mugs sit on a stone countertop beside it, already filled with measures of sugar.

There’s a quiet calmness to the circular open-plan living space that is the ground floor of the observatory. The wind outside whistles against the windows, occasionally battering them as if demanding entrance, but the building is sturdy and reinforced with more than enough spells to keep out any unwanted visitors.

Near the fireplace, closer to the middle of the room, Wilbur sets an old wooden table for himself, Phil and three guests. Fine painted porcelain plates, cups and bowls are placed in front of every chair, a sugar bowl in the middle. He slots tea leaves inside a fancy teapot; the water will still need boiling in the kettle. Making hot coco takes priority, however. To finish off the tea party, he lights a candelabra. The new light isn’t much but it at least provides the table with slightly more brightness.

“Are our guests still not here?”

Wilbur turns to the far side of the room, where a simple staircase leads to the higher levels of the observatory. The top step creeks and there’s a shuffle of feathers dragging on a carpet. Gradually, Phil appears behind the bannisters, taking his time coming down as if he were old. His wings awkwardly drag behind him, the space between the bannisters and the wall slightly too small for them.

“I’m not that surprised,” Wilbur replies, glancing back at the now much heavier snowfall outside, “the snow’s coming in pretty quick. Maybe they just went home?”

He goes to fix up the hot coco, mixing together the milk, sugar and coco powder. Two warm mugs set down on the table.

“No, Ranboo and Tubbo wouldn’t do that,” Phil shakes his head. “Fundy...well, maybe, but not the other two.”

He reaches the bottom of the stairs with a tired sigh. Shaking out his feathers and massaging his neck, he too comes over to the table and sits down in his usual low-back rocking chair right next to the fire. His wings drape down the back and across the floorboards.

“Did you see them again?” Wilbur asks, pulling back a chair on the opposite side, “the stars?”

Phil rocks himself, humming with closed eyes. “I did,” he says. “They were as beautiful as always.”

“Why do you look at them every year?”

It’s a simple enough question. However, no response comes. The sounds of the wind and the fireplace envelop the room. It’s a strange ambience, both haunting and peaceful. A familiar atmosphere laced with hints of something more secretive — something hidden.

“That, my son,” Phil eventually says, “is a question you won’t understand my answer to.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes, pinching the material of his grey shirt sleeves. “You always say that.”

A knock sounds from the front door. Well, it’s technically a ‘knock’ but a more accurate word would be ‘scratching’. It sounds like a dog pawing repeatedly at the wood, begging to be let in. 

“That’ll be them,” Phil smiles. “Wilbur, would you?”

The front door is made of oak, the lower half decorated with the carving of a falcon and the top half containing a porthole stained glass window. Even the briefest look outside is enough to tell that there aren’t the planned three visitors. At the very least, the towering shadow spirit isn’t here. As the door swings open, a freezing draft slams into Wilbur. He scrunches up his face, recoiling as a few snowflakes land on his cheeks and nose.

There definitely aren’t three guests. In fact, of all of them, only Fundy is currently on the doorstep. The poor fox is covered from head to toe in snow, hopping about on his paws with a frustrated scowl on his pointy orange face.

Wilbur looks down at him. “Well Phil, you were wrong about who would skip on us,” he says.

“Thanks for believing in me,” Fundy replies flatly, “but fortunately I’m not the only one here. You need to go help the others. They’re still in the woods.”

“What?”

“Yeah, they found some kid.”

“A kid?” Phil’s voice calls, confused and concerned. Within moments the winged man is at the door, standing just behind his son. “How far are they?”

“Almost here, I think,” Fundy replies, “coming up the path. They sent me ahead to tell you- oh right, the kid fainted almost as soon as we found him. Probably should’ve told you that first, honestly.”

Phil’s expression flashes with terror and worry but quickly settles to a bleaker brooding. His nods his head, stuffing his hands into the folds of his robes and shuddering with cold. His lips purse as he looks off to the side, tapping his foot in contemplation.

“Wil, you go out and find them,” he mutters. “I’ll get a room ready for the kid here. Fundy, you come in. Warm up by the fire.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Fundy says, shaking off his fur and prancing inside.

A dark brown trench coat hangs on a set of old hooks, surrounded by a striped bucket hat, a smart uniform jacket and several pairs of shoes littered below. The coat is a perfect fit for Wilbur; he pulls it over his arms and fixes the sleeves. Slipping his beanie off a sideboard by the stairs, he pulls it over his head and takes a deep breath. A lantern will have to suffice out there so he lights a candle and slips it inside the metal frame, holding it by the handle. Standing of the doorstep, the outside hits him once again, still frosty, and he trudges through the ankle-deep-and-rising snow into the dark.

The night had started clear but now it’s practically a blizzard. Snow and wind work in tandem, battering him as he edges further from the house. The bite of sharp ice against his face and hands comes in repetitive gusts, blown down from the northern mountaintops into the valley. The cries of mountain spirits weave through the deafening air, as harsh and unforgiving as the permafrost peaks they inhabit. Wilbur’s heart thuds against his rib cage. His eyes dart about, seeing nothing but the blizzard all around. Hopefully, none of those malevolent spirits are nearby.

Before long, it’s as if the small patch of ground he’s standing on is all that exists in the world. The lantern light doesn’t penetrate further than a foot ahead; he can’t even see his own hand if he reaches out. The observatory is only a minute or so away but it’s completely vanished behind the squall. Nevertheless, he presses on, leaning forward against the wind. His hands are already red, numbing with every flake that lands on them. Nevertheless he carries on, forcing one step in front of the other, ignoring that the snow is getting deeper.

A shape looms through the bleakness. It’s unmoving and barely visible. Wilbur lifts his lantern, the old metal creaking as it blows about. 

“Ranboo?!” he calls.

When no response comes, he raises the lantern further and clutches the front of his trench coat closed with his other hand. Hissing back his chattering teeth, he calls again as loud as he can.

“Ranboo?! Tubbo?!”

The blizzard snatches his words. 

Scowling, he closes in on the figure. Closer and closer he edges, eyes bleary and blinking back snowflakes. The lantern flame flickers.

That isn’t Ranboo.

It’s a woman. Her hair blusters about, mostly dark brown but with two segments of gold towards the front. It obscures her face for a moment then briefly allows her haunting beauty to come through. Crystalline eyes and freckles glow with a blue shimmer, her skin seeming to shine with radiance. Around her neck hangs a necklace, spiky like a wreath of unicorn horns and translucent with a blueish tint. The details of her dress are too difficult to make out but the material is pure white, blending in with the snowstorm around her.

Wilbur’s breath catches in his throat, his limbs turning to ice. A tremble spikes through him as all he can do is stare. The woman stares back. She’s seen him. For what feels like forever no one moves. No one speaks. The gale surrounds them, swallowing them.

She raises a hand, gesturing behind her. “That way,” she says. Her voice is like hushed songbird’s. Somehow it’s audible, almost like it's piercing right into Wilbur's head.

The snow breaks beneath her feet as she approaches. Wilbur remains statue-like. Eventually she’s so close he can feel heat radiating off her. She’s like the sun. Her hands wrap around the lantern. Inside, the flame is dying, almost completely out.

“Don’t let _them_ find him,” she whispers.

She blows on the flame. Immediately, it bursts out in an explosion of tendrils, reinvigorated with new life. Wilbur recoils, dropping it as he tumbles over. Landing in a heap of coat and limbs, his breaths are sporadic and uncontrolled.

The woman is gone. No one is there. It’s just him and the lantern submerged in an ocean of ever-falling snow.

He scrambles for the lantern, quickly checking it. Even though it’s been dropped, the fire inside is burning as if it’s only just been lit. Blinking, he wipes the metal frame on his sleeve and turns it over. How is it still going? And who was that woman just now?

“...bur...”

That voice. Wilbur bolts his head up.

“...Wilbur...”

There it is again, closer this time. It’s in the direction the woman had pointed.

“Ranboo?! Tubbo?!” Wilbur yells back, hoisting himself to his feet. He holds the lantern back up, squinting ahead of him.

A tall, lanky figure approaches. In his arms he’s carrying someone. A boy. _The_ boy. Any tenseness that had plagued Wilbur before dissipates with the wind. He breaks out into a run, tripping several times in snowdrifts.

“Wilbur!” the voice is now very clearly Tubbo’s.

Finally reaching them, Wilbur takes a few deep breaths and slings the lantern over his arm. Tubbo is just about visible, huddling into the crook of Ranboo’s neck under the tall spirit’s drooping ear. The poor fairy is shivering all over, burying his face into a bee-fuzz scarf. All of them are underdressed for a blizzard, the unconscious boy especially.

“Tubbo, come here,” Wilbur opens his jacket, exposing an inner-breast-pocket.

Tubbo obliges, his wings buzzing with a tired drone. He dives into the pocket, snuggling into the warmth like a kitten snuggles up to its mother in front of a warm fire.

Patting the pocket in reassurance, Wilbur returns his attention to Ranboo and the boy. “Can you still carry him?”

“I think so? How much further?” Ranboo replies.

“Only a few minutes. Come on.”

The wind fights against the both of them on their trek back. It grabs ahold of Wilbur’s coat, almost yanking it off his shoulders. It tugs at Ranboo’s ears and tail. Somehow though, the flame inside the lantern remains bright. It lights their way, golden sparks flickering against the metal every so often.

Several times, shapes loom in the corner of Wilbur’s eyes. He spares glances, hoping to see a friendly face, perhaps even that strange woman again. There’s never anything there though when he turns his head. The rest of the world has disappeared.

The woman had said something peculiar: don’t let them find him. Who is them? Or, who _are_ them? No names come to Wilbur’s mind. His lips tremble with cold and he hisses through another strong bluster. There’s no time to think right now. Getting the boy back is the top priority.

Step after step, the journey goes on until the soft glow of the front porch reveals itself up ahead. The party make for the light. Bursting through the front door, the arms of warmth scoop them up and cradle their freezing bodies. There isn’t time to rest yet though; Wilbur slams his back against the door, wrestling the elements until he hears the click of the handle locking behind him. He leans forward, hands on his knees and his face rosy. His breaths are deep and laboured for a short while. The snow on his coat and head melts quickly to slush, falling onto the floor around him where it turns to water.

There’s movement in his breast pocket. Opening his jacket up, Tubbo flies out, shaking himself down and poofing out his bee-fuzz. “Well, that was eventful,” he chirrups.

Phil’s chuckle punctuates the air, followed by several clatters of footsteps. Wilbur pulls his beanie off and wrings it out. In front of him, Ranboo is still holding the boy in his arms. Whoever the kid is, he isn’t from around here.


	3. Who Is The Boy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunday time, update time! This AU has been really fun to write so far :D  
> I hope you enjoy the chapter!

The scent of pine trees never leaves the second floor guest room. All of the furniture is carved from pine wood, from the wardrobe to the bed to the sideboard. The floorboards are pine and the rafters in the high ceiling are pine too. Hand-woven pine-needle baskets sit on both the sideboard by the door and on the windowsill opposite, filled with protective stones and charms that guard the room’s two possible entry points. The curtains are thick, pulled shut to keep out the cold. A small fire crackles away in its hearth to the right side of the room, cornered off by a lattice grate. The ever-changing flame brings the room’s shadows to life.

In the back corner of the room where the light doesn’t quite penetrate, Ranboo gently rests the mysterious boy’s head down among a pile of feather pillows, covering him in a thick quilted blanket. The boy’s cloak has been removed and is hanging on a hook downstairs, the rest of his clothes now dry from the inside heat. Luckily, his skin seems to be warming. His breathing is slow and deep too as if he were a child who has played outside for too long and lost all their energy. In this way he slept, the howling winds outside the window never once waking him.

Phil stands by the door, arms folded and face forlorn. When Ranboo turns back to him, the winged spirit lowers his head. “Come downstairs,” he says in a hushed tone, “we have a lot to talk about.”

Meanwhile at the dining table, Wilbur moves the sweet treats from their wicker basket to a cake stand and pours everyone fresh cups of tea. He himself, Tubbo and Fundy all sit down, though Fundy is actually on top of the table and Tubbo is once again between the fox’s ears. Among them they have a pack of playing cards, Tubbo and Fundy working as a team against Wilbur.

“Slapjack!” Tubbo yells, jumping down onto an ever-increasing card pile.

Wilbur pouts dramatically, his hand half way to slapping down. “I was so close that time too,” he sighs, pushing the pile across towards Fundy.

“Two pairs of eyes always work better than one,” Fundy chuckles.

“Sounds like something called _cheating_ to me,” replies Wilbur.

The stairs creek, silencing the game. Heads spin to see the two returning from upstairs, eyes checking their faces and body language. When the two approach the table, hushed anticipation seeps from every nook of the room.

Eventually, Phil makes himself comfortable in his chair. “Does anyone here know the boy?” he asks, his eyes never once leaving the fire.

No one responds. A few heads shake but besides that silence dominates.

After a couple of moments, Phil nods his head. “I thought so,” he says. “My hunch is probably right, then.”

Tubbo cocks his head. “What hunch?”

“That the boy isn’t from around here,” says Phil, “and I think I have an idea where he’s from.”

He pauses after those words, his face occasionally tensing slightly as if he means to continue speaking but his mouth doesn’t open. Instead, he pinches his chin, stroking his beard scruff and humming to himself.

The others look among one another.

“Where do you think he’s from?” asks Fundy.

To this, Phil rocks back and forth, closing his eyes. His hand lifts from the armrest, raising until his finger is pointing directly upwards. “Up there,” he says, “from the stars.”

A log shifts in the fireplace. The wind is suddenly so much louder. However, it’s only because the silence from the other boys in the room is so poignant. The mere suggestion that the boy comes from the stars of all places takes its time sinking in. The stars are fickle creatures. They never bother with the groundland. The closest they ever come is the winter solstice, tonight, but even then they barely skim the highest reaches of the world.

“That’s impossible,” Tubbo shakes his head. “The stars are too far away. They can’t possibly get down here.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” Phil shakes his head. “They ride silver winged horses to come to this world. That doesn’t mean they have to remain in the outermost boundary. Whoever this child- this _starchild_ is, something happened to him during the ride-by.”

Fundy grumbles. “But how can we be sure he’s a starchild? Looks like a regular kid to me.”

“You see that cloak?” Phil points to the white cloak hanging on the other side of the room.

The others turn their heads. It’s a very fine cloak. The pristine condition of every fibre in the fabric, every thread in the embroidery, is indeed immaculate. Other than the stars, the only people who could possibly make such fine garments are the elves and the boy most certainly isn’t an elf.

“I’ve studied the stars for many decades,” Phil continues. “I know a starchild when I see one.”

“Now that you mention it,” Ranboo perks up, his claws cupping his tea, “when we first saw him, his eyes were glowing. His freckles too. Is that something a starchild would do?”

Wilbur’s heart thuds in his ears. The image of the woman in the middle of the blizzard flashes in his mind. Her eyes and freckles had shimmered like starlight. Swallowing hard, he takes a swig of his hot coco. The concoction goes down the wrong way though and he holds back a stifled choke.

“That’s exactly what happens to the stars,” Phil says. “I don’t know why it happens. Viewing them from afar only gives me so much information, but I do know that their eyes and freckles will shine blue from time to time.”

“It’s just like that lady!” Wilbur blurts out.

Everyone looks at him.

“What?” asks Phil, his brow knotting.

“Out in the snow,” says Wilbur, his throat still sore from choking. “I was heading for Ranboo and Tubbo when I just saw her standing there. She relit my lantern. It was almost dead but she did something to it.”

Phil leans forwards, almost standing. “Did she tell you anything?” he asks.

“Yeah. She told me where to find the others and...she told me to ‘not let them find him’, I’m pretty sure.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“No,” Wilbur frowns, “after that she relit my lantern and disappeared.”

For a short time, Phil remains completely still. A clock somewhere in the upstairs rooms rounds the hour, the midnight call ringing loud and clear through the entire observatory. With every chime, the aura of the room darkens until quiet envelops it again. It’s now much heavier than before, much more serious.

“Wilbur, open the cellar,” Phil mutters, standing. “Whoever that woman is, however these starchildren got here, I’ve got a feeling they’re hiding the boy from something. Or more worryingly,” he makes a bee-line for the cloak, “someone.”

He snatches the cloak from the peg as Wilbur goes to pull back a green wool rug on the kitchen floor. A large trapdoor is underneath, sturdy and locked. The key hangs from a nail on the kitchen wall. Ranboo passes it over and together they heave the heavy door open. On the other side, a rickety ladder leads down into a dark storeroom. The strong smell of dry herbs, salted meat and wine wafts up from below.

“Find somewhere down there to hide this,” Phil orders, dropping the cloak into Wilbur’s hands. “Do you still have some of your old clothes? From when you were younger?”

Wilbur handles the cloak carefully. “I think so?” he says, taking the first steps down, “in my drawers.”

“Can I look through them?”

“Sure. Why though?”

“I think the boy will be staying with us for a while,” Phil says, already heading back upstairs, “and I don’t want him wearing what he currently is a moment longer than necessary.”

With those words, he disappears to the upper levels of the observatory. At the same time, Wilbur descends into the darkness. The storage room isn’t massive but there’s still a reasonable amount of room when he touches down at the bottom of the ladder. A stream of light cascades from the kitchen, the rest of the space rendered pitch black. Stone walls grasp at the cold stale air, encapsulating the place with a haunting atmosphere. Wilbur shudders. Entering the shadows, he narrowly dodges smacking his side against one of the many barrels stacked up down here. This place is more than familiar to him by now.

Food fills every storage unit; there are potatoes, apples, salted meat, more potatoes, dried fruits, strung up fish, alcohol and even more potatoes. Some shelves in the centre also boast herb bunches and spice bottles that tinge the air with a pungent smell.

The cloak in Wilbur’s hand is definitely no ordinary cloak. He’s about half way across the room when a hint of blue catches the corner of his eye. Blinking, he spares a glance down. It turns out the embroidery on the fabric is glowing. The patterns all have a soft tint to them, looking like they could swirl around the fabric, somehow alive. As they glow, they let out the smallest whispers of heat, warming Wilbur’s body as he holds the material close to his chest.

“What the...” his words are no more than a whisper.

The boy is an anomaly, that’s for sure.

Wilbur reaches the other side of the room. Here something hides in the back corner, swamped in a thick dust-cover. He doesn’t pull the cover off completely, rather he only pushes it back far enough to reveal a large chest. The metal foundations shimmer blue, reflecting the cloak’s light, meanwhile the wooden body is sturdy without a single crack.

The chest isn’t locked. Wilbur lifts the lid with ease. Inside, there’s little of note: a couple of rusted swords, a leather-bound tome, a compass and some rudimentary astronomy gear. There’s more than enough room left for a cloak — the perfect hiding place.

**§§§**

Wilbur’s old clothes are neatly folded in his lower drawer. Phil picks out a few garments and piles them on his son’s willow-woven double bed — a few shirts, trousers, socks and jackets. Most of them aren’t much smaller than what Wilbur currently wears. The boy had looked quite tall though, so hopefully they’ll fit.

Closing the bedroom door behind him, Phil turns his attention down the dark corridor as he reaches the top of the stairs. The boy is still sleeping in the room at the other end. Unanswered questions flood Phil’s mind, suffocating him. The boy’s name. His age. How he even got here. All of these variables hang out of reach. They’re like the stars themselves, simultaneously right there and miles away.

Phil treads up to the door and gently pushes it open. The old hinges creak. Inside, the heat is a nice combination of satisfying and gentle on his skin. Sliding off his sandals and leaving them by the threshold, he shuffles over to the end of the bed; he might as well organise these clothes for the kid now before he wakes up. The clothes all sort into four neat, folded piles at the foot of the bed, resting on top of the quilt.

Looking at them, a whole host of memories bubble up in Phil’s mind. A white t-shirt with red sleeves still has the faintest impression of a grass stain he’d never been able to wash out. Wilbur had been sparring down in the glade, his skills still those of a beginner. Every day for months he’d stumbled home bruised and battered, clothes dirty and sometimes soaked from the lake or ripped from brambles. Every day though, he’d come home with the largest smile, determined to go back the next day and do better.

Wilbur had never been a physical fighter. Phil hums, placing the shirt down on top of the other clothes. No, Wilbur’s calling comes from the same root that had brought Phil himself into existence. The valley and its prosperity call for a guardian spirit who cares for every living thing within, spilling magical energy forth until a being becomes of it. That’s how Phil had been born. That’s how he’d found Wilbur.

Laughter echoes from downstairs. Phil shakes himself of past memories, though the hints of a nostalgic smile tug at the corners of his lips. Giving the boy a final glance, he turns to leave, closing the door behind him.


	4. At Last A Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m broken after today’s stream and I’m sure you all are too so have some fluff where Phil is a good dad and loves his kids!   
> (Chapter not edited today because I was rushing sorry I might come back to it tomorrow for a touch-up)

Frost clings to window panes all over the observatory, glistening with translucent fractals in the early morning sun. The sky is clear and crisp air welcomes the morning with well-settled cold. Snow piles up across the garden, so thick that the wicker fence around the backend which looks over the rolling fields of the valley is almost completely buried. A myriad of animal prints, mostly from birds, scatter the surface in random patterns like the trails water-skates make on a pond, only these don’t ripple and fade in mere seconds.

Phil is the first to awaken. The night had been rough. Little sleep had grasped him and the few moments where his mind had settled, dark omens had plagued his dreams. Something’s out there in his valley. Something foreign, not of this land. It’s not like the wandering spirits though. Those creatures are benevolent and seek temporary peace in the forest glades, water springs and shaded caves he watches over. No, this thing is different. It’s darker. More malevolent.

And it hasn’t left yet.

His room is at the very top of the observatory, under the hatch leading to the telescope. To begin the day he splashes his face with water and heaves a groggy sigh. The second thing he does is dress in the same green robes as always and slip on his sandals. Heading downstairs comes third. As he makes his way down the narrow staircase to the third floor he rubs his face, scrunching up his nose and blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

The third floor is where most of the guest rooms are. All of last night’s guests combined only take up one room though. Passing by, Ranboo’s low snores reverberate through the door. Peeking through a crack in the threshold, Fundy is just about visible curled up on the end of the shadow spirit’s bed. Tubbo is sprawled out on the bedside table, wrapped in a tiny blanket sewn especially for him. Sleep still hangs over them all. It isn’t surprising; they’d ended up playing cards with Wilbur until the small hours of the morning.

Speaking of Wilbur, Phil doesn’t bother checking on him as he descends to the second floor. On the best of days his son is difficult with mornings. On the worst of days it’s a nightmare to even try getting him up. Today looks to be one of those days — best to leave him be.

A draft swirls at Phil’s feet. His toes curl. Even with the fires unlit, it shouldn’t be this cold. Halting at the top of the stairs to the ground floor, he mentally tracks the draft back to its origin.

Down the corridor, his eyes quickly stop. The boy’s bedroom door hangs open. Early morning sunbeams illuminate what should be a shadowy bedroom. The only window in the room is swung wide and caught up in the frozen breeze, pushed back and forth on creaking hinges. Meanwhile, the curtains waver in the wind and a light dusting of snow has blown onto the sill. Eerie emptiness hangs over the place.

The hairs on Phil’s neck and arms prickle. Dread constricts around him. Had the boy woken up in the night? Had this strange place frightened him?

Had he run away?

A noise punctuates the air — a ravenous crunching echoes up from the kitchen. Phil’s wings bristle; he leaves the open window be, his lips sealing into a tight line, and squeezes his wings together to fit down the stairs. He’s only half way down when the kitchen and dining table appear between the bannisters.

His anxiety immediately dissipates.

Of all people, the boy is sitting at the table, knees hunched up to his shoulders and his arm half way inside a box of cereal. Crushed cereal pieces mottle the tabletop and floor leading to an open dry-foods cupboard. Pulling out a massive handful of flakes, the boy stuffs them into his mouth only for about half of the handful to spill down onto his clothes and the tabletop.

Speaking of his clothes, he’s changed into Wilbur’s old white and red t-shirt and beige trousers but his feet are still bare. Considering that the hearth is no more than ashes at this point, it’s a miracle he isn’t shivering all over or wrapping himself in bed quilts. The air is chilly and still in the open-plan living area. Every day, the nip of the morning isn’t kind to Phil and he usually pulls his wings around himself even more than necessary.

Today, however, all the guardian spirit can do is slump his shoulders and let out a prolonged sigh of relief. Relief that the boy hadn’t actually run away. Relief that he’s eating. Relief that the clothes fit. Stepping down further, Phil clears his throat. “Good morning,” he says in an elevated tone lined with kind warmth.

Instantly, the boy’s head shoots up. His chewing halts. His hand freezes on its way back for another helping of food. For a good while, all the two do is look at one another in complete silence.

The boy swallows. He blinks. Then, he beams. “Morning!” he laughs, his toothy grin stained with cereal pieces. “You got any more of this stuff?” He rattles the now almost-empty box.

All Phil can do is stare. The boy is so happy. So relaxed. Isn’t he even a bit nervous? “I- uh, I have more in the cupboard, I think...” he replies, finally getting to the bottom of the stairs. “Don’t you want any milk with that though?”

The boy’s gaze flits to the corner of the room, his mouth opening and closing every so often. Eventually though, he slaps his mouth shut and shakes his head. “Nope!” is all he says before going back to scraping the last dregs of edible food out of the box.

He’s an odd one, that’s for sure. As Phil crosses the room to light the fire, he can’t take his eyes off the boy. A frown knots onto his brow as he piles up the kindling and logs, turning away for a moment to blow a magical wisp of flame onto his fingertip.

There’s an energy radiating off the boy. It’s warm like the sun, though not nearly as strong. The idea of having a real starchild in his house isn’t exactly something Phil had imagined would happen in his lifetime. The kid may not be a starchild after all and this could all be some big misunderstanding. Still, there’s something about him that feels different to the other spirits. It’s as if the life energy of the groundland isn’t flowing towards him but rather away. Surely that has to mean something.

Now the real question is _why_. Why is this boy here? Why isn’t he back in the stars? Did he fall by accident or on purpose? If what Wilbur had said is indeed true, perhaps something more concerning is afoot than a simple mistake. Could it connect to the malevolent presence sensed last night?

The first sparks of flame grasp the kindling. A few blows and the fire is creeping through the wood, swallowing it in warmth. The fire is mesmerising. Phil resigns himself to his chair and spends a few moments in still thought.

The pieces of this mysterious puzzle are all still up in the air. There’s the boy, the presence and the woman Wilbur claims to have seen. Perhaps that woman could’ve been helping the boy escape someone?

_Don’t let them find him_ — the words she’d supposedly said. If the mysterious presence is linked to the people this boy is running from, simply hiding him away may not work for long.

A freezing gust of wind hits him in the back. The fire flits. He lets out a surprised yelp, spinning around. It isn’t an intruder. Such an easy break-in is impossible for a place like this. Instead, the boy is opening the kitchen window. Without asking and barely even making a sound as he’d stood up, he’s now leaning over the countertop pushing back the herb bunches. The window is wide open, letting in enough morning air to freeze the entire room as if it weren’t already cold enough.

“What are you doing?!” Phil huffs, hurrying over to grab the handle.

The boy just looks at him, confused. “You’re lighting a fire,” he says, “so I’m opening the window to cool everything down.”

_What?_

“The reason I’m lighting a fire is to warm the room up,” Phil explains, pulling the window to and making sure the handle is secure.

“But it’s so hot in here!” the boy groans. “Come on. I’ll open the window and keep it cool.”

“But it’s freezing.”

“No it’s not.”

It’s too late. The boy is already reaching for the handle again. Phil keeps his hand gripping it. “Listen, kid...” he pauses. “What’s your name?”

The boy stops reaching. His eyes look away again, deep in thought, and he chews his lower lip. “Don’t know,” he eventually says and returns to trying to open the window.

“Woah, hold on there mate,” says Phil. “You can’t just say ‘don’t know’ and leave it at that. You’ve gotta have a name at least.”

“Yeah well I don’t remember it,” the boy sighs. “Hey, you got any more food? I’m starving. That crunchy stuff’s nice. Can you give me some more?”

With that, he ignores the window completely and returns to the table, pulling his feet up onto his seat. His back hunched over. Phil grimaces at such terrible posture.

Very slowly, he removes his hand from the window handle and goes to make up a proper bowl of cereal. Luckily there are a few more boxes in the cupboard; he won’t have to punish his knees and wings climbing down into the cellar. A generous portion of flakes falls into a white porcelain bowl, accompanied by a polished spoon.

“If you don’t remember your name,” he says, sitting down opposite the boy and pushing the bowl over, “what do you want me to call you? I can’t just call you ‘kid’ all the time.”

Unsurprisingly, the boy opts to ignore the spoon and goes right in with his hands. “Name?” He ponders through a mouthful, “I don’t know any names. Why are you so wound up about it anyway? What’s your name supposed to be?”

“You can call me Phil.”

“Okay, Phil, I need a name. How about I let you do the honours of giving me one?”

It didn’t really feel like an ‘honour’, more like a necessity.

“What about John?” Phil suggests.

“Boring.”

“Matt?”

“Boring.”

“Steve?”

“You know, you aren’t very good at coming up with names,” the boy leans back.

Phil’s muscles tense. He bites back his annoyance. “You just said you don’t know any names,” he says through gritted teeth, “how do you even know which names are good or not? These are literally the most basic ones I know.”

“Well I don’t like them,” the boy replies. “I want a better name.”

“Hey, Phil,” a tiny voice suddenly murmurs, “it’s freezing in here.”

The buzz of little bee wings accompanies Tubbo hovering between the stair banisters. He’s clutching his blanket to his chest, arms stuffed into the folds of fabric. His bee fuzz coat falls over his frame, the wings neatly pushed through the wing-slits on the back but the sleeves hanging off his shoulders, unused. Fluttering down, he passes over the boy’s head into Phil’s now outstretched palms.

“Sorry, Tubbo,” Phil says, holding the fairy in front of him. “I’ll light all the hearths in the house.”

“The window upstairs is open,” Tubbo yawns, rubbing his eyes.

“Right. I’ll close that too. In the meantime, you can stay here and help come up with a name for the kid.” He sets Tubbo down on the table and heads upstairs.

Somewhere in the house, a clock ticks. The fire crackles away in the background, a low smoky scent wisping through the ground floor. Without the howl of last night’s wind, there’s a hushed calm to the place. It’s a stillness like the serenity of a frozen lake on a clear night, unmoving and quiet.

Tubbo looks up at the boy. The boy looks down at Tubbo. Neither of them say a word, although Tubbo does eventually stand up, abandoning his blanket, and wanders across the table top. His faint reflection in the cereal bowl bows and broadens as he approaches, his footsteps silent. 

This boy still has something about him. Something strange. The emptiness from last night winds through the fairy’s gut, as if he’s looking upon someone in an old photograph or reading a letter they’ve sent from a far off land. The boy is in the room with him but he isn’t at the same time.

“Hello,” the boy suddenly says.

Tubbo breaks from his thoughts. “Hello?” he replies, cocking his head.

“You know, that Phil guy really is terrible with names,” the boy says between fistfuls of food. “You got any better ideas?”

_Probably not_. The fairy flutters up to the salt shaker, perching somewhat awkwardly on the flat top. “I can try, I guess?” he ponders. “What about...I don’t know...Jerry?”

The boy grimaces. “Seriously?”

“Okay, how about Greg?”

“No better.”

“Tommy?”

The boy goes to retort once again but stops. His mouth hangs open, the rest of his body freezing like he’s been hit with an ice spell. He purses his lips, his gaze darting around and his hands making motions as if he’s having some kind of inner conversation with himself. The entire time, Tubbo sits waiting, twiddling his thumbs while his antennae sway from side to side.

“I like that one,” the boy — Tommy — nods. “Tommy.”

“Wait, really?” Tubbo blinks. “Alright then.”

So, that’s his name. Tommy. Well, at least that’s what everyone’s going to call him. What his original name is, it doesn’t really matter. At least he has a name at all.

A low knock hits the front door. Three quick, identical raps fill the room, followed shortly by the splat of snow falling off the window ledges either side of the porch. Both boys tense, spinning their heads towards the other side of the ground floor. A dark shadow looms outside the stained-glass porthole window, the person on the other side distorted and unclear. Whoever they are, they’re a dominating figure. 

Tubbo swallows, slipping behind the salt shaker. The discussions from the previous night come to mind; he spares a glance over at Tommy. If the creature on the other side is something bad, something looking for Tommy, then it shouldn’t be able to get in. Surely Phil’s spells are enough to keep it out.

Speaking of Phil, where is he? Shouldn’t he have sensed something’s off? If the spells alone can’t get rid of the thing, Phil will be able to.

Three more knocks sound. They aren’t harsh or hurried. In fact, they’re rather laid back and patient. Still, Tubbo isn’t taking his chances.

Suddenly, Tommy pushes back his chair and stands up. “I’ll get it,” he says. Caution laces his voice but nevertheless he tiptoes over to the door.

Another three knocks fill the room.

“One second, one second,” Tommy huffs, making short work of the many sliding locks all the way down the side of the door. He only opens it a margin, peeking out. “Hi there,” he says.

For a moment there’s silence. Then, after Tubbo is already contemplating darting back upstairs to find Phil, a long and tired, almost pig-like grunt escapes the person outside.

“Who are you?” a deep, drained voice asks. “What are you doing in Phil’s house?”


	5. Not Quite Right

The spirit outside is a hulk, towering over the front door with a large brown sack slung over his shoulder. Short bristles of fur cover a pinkish pig face, the hog snout alone being almost the size of a hand and his ears flop down either side of his head. As he breathes out, icy mist expels from his nostrils. A red cloak covers most of his person, lined with thick wool that looks softer than cotton and drags the hem down towards the ground. Most of his clothes aren’t visible but glints of valuable jewelled necklaces, pendants and clasps peak out between the centre parting alongside hints of blue fabric that’s supposedly some sort of tunic or shirt.

Tommy swallows. “Hi there,” he says, pushing the door back until it’s only open a sliver, “who are you?”

“You aren’t gonna answer me, kid?” The pig creature asks. “If not, have you at least seen a man called Phil? I don’t have time to deal with children.”

For such a monstrous-looking beast, the guy is surprisingly calm. His tone is more frustrated than angry and he doesn’t have any weapons drawn, instead hauling the huge sack down onto the front porch.

“Techno?”

The voice is Phil’s. He’s at the top of the stairs, Fundy winding around his legs with his bushy tail and Ranboo groggily doing his morning stretches behind the guardian spirit’s wings, arms bumping the ceiling. Faster than a goblin rushing for jewels he hurries down towards the front door, almost ripping over the poor fox, and comes to Tommy’s side, placing a protective hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“He’s with me for now, Techno,” he says. “Don’t worry, he isn’t a threat. Kid, this here is Technoblade. Technoblade, this is...” he pauses, mouth quivering as if searching for a name that won’t come.

“Tommy,” Tommy finishes, relaxing his stance a bit.

Techno’s snout scrunches up, his gaze like needles. Those eyes of his are small and dark but they sure can penetrate deep into Tommy’s being. “Pleasure,” he grumbles.

The next few minutes fly by. Phil takes the strange sack from Techno as if this is a routine occurrence and drags it into the middle of the ground floor, peeking at its contents and smiling with approval before reaching inside and pulling out a perfectly round potato. While he checks over the supply, Ranboo plods downstairs adjusting his black blazer sleeves, his tie hanging undone around his neck and his eyes bleary with morning tiredness. Fundy slinks behind him, yawning and exposing his canines. They pass by the front door on the way to the dining table.

“Morning, Techno,” Ranboo murmurs, waving limply.

Tommy stands by the open door, bouncing up and down on his heels and pursing his lips. All these people are very odd indeed. There’s something about them that’s different to what he’d expect from others, though what that ‘normal’ is supposed to be he has no idea. Seeing so many people gathered together, interacting cheerfully, somehow feels new though, as if he’s never experienced it before.

A chilly huff escapes Techno, the spirit pulling his cloak tighter around himself and prompting a hurried “you can come in and warm up” from Phil. It’s true that the outside is freezing. It’s quite satisfying actually, at least to Tommy. As Techno enters he has to duck under the wooden doorframe and his steps thud on the floorboards. He isn’t quite as tall as the shadow spirit but he’s certainly a similar height. Since Phil is bow busy moving the potatoes from their sack into a wicker basket under the kitchen counter, Techno settles into the rocking chair by the fire, muttering curses at the cold while holding his hands to the flames.

Tommy’s brow furrows. These people sure complain about the cold a lot. This place is really warm, at least it feels warm on his skin. Waking up overheated hadn’t been a fun experience in the slightest. He closes the door and wanders back to the table to find the entire top taken up by a snooty-looking fox sprawled out between the cereal bowl and the salt shaker. No one says a word, the atmosphere rife with an air of morning fatigue.

Phil finishes up with the potatoes and goes over to Techno. They converse in low voices, staying quite a way from the others. A few times they spare glances over at Tommy as well as the three spirits huddling around the dining table eager for a breakfast they aren’t going to make themselves. It takes a little while but eventually Phil squeezes his hands together and gestures for his friend to give him a second to speak.

“Boys,” he says, coming up to the table, “D’you think you could maybe show Tommy around a bit? Just the garden, maybe the woods? Me and Techno have to talk about something.”

Fundy groans at the idea. “Before we’ve even had breakfast?” he asks.

“I’ll make you all something for when you get back, okay?” Phil responds impatiently.

“Pancakes?” Tubbo perks up.

“Sure, I can make pancakes for you all.”

Somehow, that seems to just about do the trick appeasing the others. Either it’s the promise of free food or the hissing undertone in Phil’s voice. A late breakfast is better than no breakfast, after all. Everyone gets ready to leave. On the way down from the table, Tubbo hops on top of Fundy’s head and buries himself into the fox’s fur, pulling his arms through the sleeves of his coat. Ranboo also heads for the front door, at last fixing his tie around his neck and pulling the collar down.

When Tommy goes to follow them though, a hand comes to rest on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. Phil leans down beside him, reaching into the folds of his robe and producing a turquoise ring about the size of a chickpea attached to a thin metal chain, forming a necklace sealed with a dainty clasp. The guardian spirit draws the necklace around Tommy’s neck, fixing it in place. The ring dangles down to Tommy’s chest, the metal providing a brief twinge of cold against his skin, though the feeling isn’t strong.

“It’ll protect you,” Phil says under his breath. “Never take it off.”

With that he gives Tommy’s a reassuring pat on the back and gently urges him in the direction of the others. The boy opens his mouth in confusion, questions riddling his mind, but he’s out of the door before any words can make past his lips. The door shuts perhaps a little too harshly and more snow falls in a heap from the nearby window ledges, disturbing a couple of robins poking about the dead winter flowerpots underneath.

Outside on the porch, the first waves of cold finally wash over Tommy. It isn’t unpleasant though. The feeling is more refreshing than anything and it certainty doesn’t seem to warrant the grumbled shivering the fox behind him is jittering. Tommy stretches and takes in a deep breath of the morning air. It smells clean with hints of tree bark from the forest and smoke from the observatory fireplace. For a brief few moments, it’s like he’s the only person in the world standing there taking in the day.

That illusion is quickly broken by the others though. “So, new kid,” Fundy grimaces, “do you care at all where we take you?”

Tubbo clears his throat. “You’ll find his name is Tommy,” he says proudly, puffing out his little chest and putting his hands on his hips. His wings buzz back and forth for a moment. “Came up with the name myself.”

“Tommy? really?” asks Fundy, swerving around and beginning to walk away from the observatory despite not waiting for Tommy’s reply. “Why not go for something better? Like Comet or Dawnstar or something cool-sounding?”

A pant of irritation shoots through Tommy when he hears that. “Hey, furry creature,” he huffs, “I’ll have you know Tommy is a great name. Why? Because I approved it!” He stomps after the others, Ranboo close behind, and immediately his bare feet sink nine inches into the snow. Unfazed, he continues on.

“ _Furry creature_?!” Fundy scoffs. “I’m a fox!” F-O-X.”

“Never heard of one,” Tommy replies.

A blanket of white lays over the land all around. Every blade of grass, every flower stalk in the meadow, lays dormant beneath the snow, waiting for the moment when spring will return and melt the frozen land away. The treetops of the nearby forest are bare, sticking up into the clear morning sky like jagged spires reaching for the highest boundaries of the world. Behind the forest, the snowy peaks of the mountains act as a protective wall for the valley, shielding this peaceful place from unwanted intruders in a defensive range that curls around the valley’s boundaries, only halted by steep cliffs that look out towards a frozen sea on the western side. A few clouds gather on the ridges, obscuring them in a grey haze.

The party wander aimlessly along the border of the forest, occasionally checking up on a bird’s nest or a squirrel’s hibernation hole. Tubbo sits cross-legged on Fundy’s head, looking back at Tommy with a puzzled expression. Unsurprisingly, Tommy catches onto this pretty quickly and scowls.

“What?” he asks.

“Oh, nothing,” Tubbo replies, leaning his head into his palm and resting his elbow on his knee, “just wondering, are starchildren like shadow spirits?”

Tommy frowns “I understood nothing you just said.”

“It’s just you don’t feel the cold at all. How come? I get why Ranboo doesn’t. He’s a shadow spirit. Shadows don’t feel cold. But you’re supposed to be a starchild, right?”

Tommy’s face contorts in confusion. “What even is a ‘starchild’?”

Ranboo chips in at this point. “Hold on. Do you even know what kind of spirit you are?”

To that, only silence provides an answer.

**§§§**   
  


“So, you sensed it too?” Phil asks, stoking the fire with a few more logs.

Techno slumps down in the rocking chair, pushing himself back and forth. The flames are mesmerising. “Last night,” he says, “I didn’t just sense something. I saw something.”

“What?”

Phil’s wings shudder. He pulls them around himself, his expression dower. This was bad. Even though he’d definitely sensed something last night, something so unnerving it had kept him from sleep, a small part of him had hoped beyond hope it hadn’t been real. Techno’s presence is usually a welcome one in the observatory, bringing a sense of familiarity and shared understanding to the responsibilities of being powerful spirits. Today though, the meeting is dark. Unwelcoming.

“I was doing my nightly round of the lake,” Techno explains, “keeping to myself as usual, when the snow storm came in. I decided to head home and took a short cut past the marsh. That’s where I saw something in the snow.” He shifts his position, leaning forwards. “There was a man riding a winged horse. I couldn’t get a look at his face. He was wearing some sort of mask, I think. But his cloak glowed blue. As soon as I laid eyes on him, something felt very, very wrong.”


	6. Nearly Caught

Phil clears the kitchen table of Tommy’s ‘breakfast’ and unhooks a flat pan from an array of cooking equipment on the wall by the stairs. Passing by the kitchen window, he looks out at the winter meadow. Beyond the back garden, the snow is largely untouched. All across the hills it lies like a blanket, stopping only when the frozen ocean comes to meet it at the shore. To think, the hooves of a malevolent rider taint the pristine snow of the valley.

Techno’s eyelids droop. He buries his snout into the wool fluff of his cloak, his right leg gently rocking himself back and forth. The hearth, for all the sooty scents it spews into the forest spirit’s sensitive nose, is very warm and welcoming, quite unlike his living situation down in the glade.

He grunts under his breath as Phil passes by the rocking chair. “The spirit is looking for someone,” he mumbles, watching Phil set up a cooking tripod over the fireplace. “Asked me if I’d seen a boy. I replied “many” but clearly the guy didn’t find it funny.”

The fire crackles. Phil throws another log on and stokes it with a poker. “Did the guy try anything?” he asks.

“No, but I could tell he wanted to. Even in the blizzard I saw the way his hand twitched for his axe.”

“He’s armed?” 

That isn’t good.

“Yes,” Techno replies.

Another wave of dread sinks deep into Phil’s gut. He heads back to the kitchen to make up some pancake batter. The entire time, his senses cast outwards, spinning through the ground and air like invisible wisps of smoke from a campfire, noting every life form in the near vicinity. There are little birds on the front porch poking around for grubs. A couple of hares are bounding through the woods, most likely flaunting their winter furs by now. And then there are the kids. The four spirits are still together, luckily. They’re making a round of the wood, it appears, and have stopped somewhere along the trail for a break. No souls seem unnerved. For now, at least, they’re okay.

“Do you think we’ll have to open up the armoury?” Techno asks.

Phil stops stirring the batter. “Don’t get reckless,” he warns, coming back over to the hearth, “but keep the keys close to hand. If needs must, it’s up to me- to _us_ to keep this valley safe.”

Techno nods. “I’ll fight for this valley alongside you even if it kills me,” he says. “Even if I’m cut down or bleeding out, I’ll make sure I kill anyone who threatens our home before I give in to death. It’s the least I can do for you.”

Phil sets the last of the cooking supplies in place. Now all that’s left is to wait for the others to come back. “You shouldn’t talk like that,” he says, pulling back a chair at the dining table. His wings flatten awkwardly against the back, draping out to the sides. “You don’t owe this valley anything. You don’t owe _me_ anything. I’m a guardian spirit. It’s my job to protect this place. All you should have to do is live.”

Techno smiles but his eyes tell a different story. There’s pain swimming deep within them, as well as questioning unfamiliarity to the statement he’d just heard. “You and I both know I don’t know how to do that.” He stands, ruffling out his cloak. “I should be on my way. I’ve still got deliveries to make.”

To that, Phil can’t help but chuckle. “Potatoes as usual?” he asks, following Techno to the door.

“You know me too well,” the forest spirit responds, his voice tinted with humour. Just before he steps outside, he takes in a large breath of the air. His light-hearted aura immediately dissipates. “That spirit is still out there somewhere,” he says. “I chased him off last night but he’s not gone. You can sense it too, right?”

“Yeah,” Phil nods.

“Don’t let the kid into his hands. I don’t know why they want him but no normal spirit seeps with that much hatred. If I see him again, I will try to kill him on sight.”

That notion pangs guilt into Phil. It’s a statement that only someone like Techno would utter. Reluctantly, he gives the forest spirit a firm pat on the shoulder, allowing his hand to linger for a moment. “Don’t overdo things,” he says. “Promise me that at least.”

Techno nods and firmly rests his hand on top of Phil’s. “I promise.”

Watching him leave, the mountains tower up over the scene, protecting the valley with their steep passes and fickle spirits wandering the clifftops. Should anything make it past, Phil will be ready to take it on. His joints ache at the notion of once again holding a sword to an enemy, swinging the blade in combat and manoeuvring with calculated agility through battle. It’s been a long time since last he’s had to do that. Techno is younger and more poised for conflict, knowing only the art of war as a defence against opposition — the perfect weapon for protection.

But that isn’t why Phil keeps him around. That isn’t why Phil saved him all those years ago.

It’s chilly. A billow of top snow blows down from the roof of the observatory in a gust of flakes, showering the porch. There are still a few things to get ready inside; the table needs laying, a fresh pot of tea needs brewing and Wilbur is still in bed. It would probably be best to try giving him a shake around now, especially with that strange presence still on the loose. As the morning minutes tick on, an ‘all-hands-on-deck’ situation seems to be stirring.

**§§§**

Tommy’s silence is difficult to gage. He’s once again looking off to the side, mouth hanging slightly open and words almost forming but never quite making it out. After a short while, Tubbo hops off Fundy’s head and flies up, stopping before the starchild’s face and tilting his head to the side.

“You okay?” he asks.

To that, Tommy jumps from his thoughts. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says hurriedly. “Why’re you asking?”

“Because...” Tubbo trails off. His expression darkens and his breathing stifles.

Now it’s Tommy’s turn to ask. “Something wrong?”

Suddenly, Tubbo darts behind Tommy’s ear, his tiny weightless feet touching down on his new friend’s shoulder. Both Ranboo and Fundy are also acting more reserved, their heads turned towards the meadow and their backs to the wood. At first, Tommy rolls his eyes at the strangeness; it isn’t anything new to him given he can’t remember much. All these people are strangers behaving in ways he for some reason thinks are odd. It’s only when he himself turns to look at what the others have seen that his heart thumps against his rib age and his mouth runs dry.

The meadow stretches out, rolling across the low hills of the valley. On top of the nearest hill, the morning sun is somewhat blocked by a tall silhouette — a figure. The figure is some way off, as unmoving as a statue and almost glistening in the haze of the rising sun behind him. He sits poised on the back of a white horse, the vague outlines of wings visible folded down along the steed’s sides and a mottling of grey-blue speckles covering its back. From such a distance, pretty much all the details of his appearance, including his face, are too difficult to make out, although he is shrouded in some kind of cloak.

The distance doesn’t stop Ranboo from rasping out a tense breath, shuddering and stepping backwards, clawed hands gripping his chest and his eyes widening. Fundy’s tail flickers back and forth, his paws trembling and his snout sniffing the air. He recoils, growling. Up on Tommy’s shoulder, Tubbo backs away into the crook of his new friend’s neck.

“That guy isn’t from around here,” he mutters.

Tommy cocks his head, frowning. “What’s wrong with not being from around here?” he asks.

“It’s not just that,” Fundy grunts, baring his canines and leaning down as if readying to lunge forwards. “Can’t you feel it? The guy’s presence?”

“No?” Tommy replies.

The sky has the slightest tinge of pink to it that bleeds into the lilac blues of the small hours like watercolours on paper. The moon hangs in the gradient, a humble crescent, and the Morning Star glimmers like a tiny jewel shard sent to scatter across the sky. Both these satellites frame the figure. The folds of his cloak shift. He turns his head towards the party. An audible squeak escapes Tubbo.

Tommy swallows. His chest is tight. His legs are shaking. What even is this feeling? Is it what the others are feeling? Some kind of primordial fear? Whatever it is, that far off figure is causing it.

That’s when the figure starts to move. He flicks up his reins and the horse breaks into a steady trot, kicking up a trail of snow in its wake. Down the hill the rider travels and that’s when Tommy notices the gleaming metal blade of an axe strapped to the figure’s side, swinging back and forth as the horse approaches. Tommy’s legs beg him to turn around and run but they’re stuck in place. He curses mentally. Why won’t they move? The more he stares at the nearing figure, the more his heart pounds in his ears and throat in rhythm with the hooves sending up snow drifts on the ground.

The horse lets out a deafening whinny. It echoes throughout all the vicinity, shaking the treetops and frozen earth. Fundy’s growls gurgle in his throat, the fox taking a defensive stance. Ranboo meanwhile cowers back.

Suddenly, the figure pulls the reins taught. The horse immediately grinds to a halt before the party, its wings stretching to keep its balance. The creature is massive, towering over all but Ranboo, and mist expels from its nostrils with every breath. Shaggy hair falls from its mane and legs, its tailso long that the hair drags behind the rest of the animal. As for the figure, he’s wearing a smooth white mask. The only details are two black dots for eyes and a curving smile. Despite the mask covering his entire face, he looks down at the group.

Tommy’s hairs stand on end. His face feels cold but not in the sense of temperature. Rather, it feels as though this man is staring right through him into his very being. Into his soul.

The figure speaks. His voice is slow, calculated. “Good morning,” he says, a hand already lowering towards the axe. “Would you be able to help me? I’m looking for someone.”

No one speaks. At least, not for a few seconds. Only when the man’s hand inches closer to the axe handle does Ranboo choke out a response. “That- that depends,” he says. “Would we know who you’re looking for?”

The man’s hand freezes. “You’ll know him if you’ve seen him. He’s not from around here. Now tell me, have you seen an...I don’t know, a blond boy with glowing freckles and white cloak who can stand the cold very well?”

He isn’t even looking at Ranboo as he speaks. Not once does his gaze falter from Tommy. Tommy — the blond haired boy currently standing barefoot and uncloaked in a snowdrift during the middle of winter. The boy who can’t remember a thing from before today. The boy who doesn’t know who in the world this man is but for some reason is overcome with a deep-seated dread just from laying eyes on him.

The man is definitely looking for him. And Tommy doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t want to go with him.

“You know,” a lick of impatience laces the man’s voice, “if you have any information or know where the boy is, I’ll let you go. If you don’t cooperate,” his fingertips brush the axe handle, “I might have to get-“

“Boys!”

That voice. Thank god for that voice. A gust of wind spirals the surrounding top snow into a flurry of flakes. Tommy gasps and blinks back the sudden rush. The moment he gets his bearings again, a new figure has swooped down and now stands between him and the man. It’s Phil.

This is a different Phil from before though. He retains a polite demeanour but beneath it there’s a simmering tension. “Can I help you with anything?” he asks the man pointedly.

The man remains silent for a moment, unmoving. Then, his hand slowly retracts from the axe, coming to rest on the front of his saddle. “And who are you?” he answers with a question of his own.

“I go by Phil to most people,” Phil replies, “and I’m the guardian spirit of this valley. What are you doing here, starchild?”

Those words seem to take the man aback, for he inhales a quick breath and his shoulders tense. He lowers his head as if he’s reading every nuance of Phil’s expression and movement. Only once no clear motivations for Phil’s question come to him does he respond. “So you know what I am,” he sounds half-impressed, “therefore you should know that my people don’t come to the groundland. It is forbidden by the law of the Star King.”

“I know only that your kind prefer to avoid the ground,” Phil replies. “As for your business here, what do you want? I will see you as an ambassador for your people now, but choose your words unwisely and I may have to turn you into an enemy.”

The man is swift to respond. “To find a fugitive,” he says, “a boy who ran away from the star kingdom’s castle on the solstice.”

“And what will you do with him once he’s found?”

“I don’t see how that’s any business of yours,” the man says, “but he will be punished accordingly.”

Phil’s chin lifts. He stuffs his hands inside his robes. Behind him, Tommy can only stare. Are they talking about him? The others had called him a ‘starchild’. Had he run away from the other starchildren? Why can’t he remember? Nevertheless, the last thing he wants in that moment is to go with that man. ‘Punished’, that’s the word the man had used. He’ll be punished for something he doesn’t even remember doing if he’s caught.

“I’m sorry we can’t be of any help to you,” Phil eventually says, “but we haven’t seen anyone who could be your fugitive. Last night was a pretty terrible blizzard. Were you unlucky enough to experience it?” Phil knows damn well this man had been here.

“I was. It stopped me from locating the boy easily. Are you sure you know nothing? I’d say the boy looks like that kid there.” He points directly at Tommy.

Tommy’s blood runs cold.

“You mean..?” Phil turns his head. “Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself. That’s my son, Tommy. Like me, he’s a guardian spirit. Isn’t that right, Tommy?”

All Tommy can do is nod his head feebly, his mouth quivering and his eyes stinging. Every muscle in his body is now screaming to get away but he holds his ground behind Phil, endlessly thankful for the protection.

It’s subtle, but the man’s posture slackens. His shoulders slump and for the first time he breaks gaze from Tommy. Again his fingers itch to grab the axe but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes up his reins and readies his horse. “In a few days’ time, the starchildren will have travelled too far from the atmosphere to return to this world,” he says. “I’ll be gone by the time that happens. I apologise for seeming to intrude on your land.”

With that, he kicks his heels into his horse’s sides and gallops away over the hills. Just as quickly as his presence had entered the area, it disappears like a flame snuffed from a candlestick. All that’s left are the rising chirrups of birdsong and the wind to settle the group down from the intense atmosphere that had built up over the past several minutes.

“Are you alright?!” Phil suddenly swivels around, grabbing a hold of Tommy’s shoulders. “He didn’t figure out who you were before I got here, did he?”

Tommy shakes his head, his breathing unsteady. “I- I don’t think so,” he stammers. “I don’t know- it all went so fast, Phil, I-“

“Come on. We’re going back to the observatory,” Phil pulls the starchild close under his wing. “Let’s have breakfast. Calm everyone down. Tubbo, Fundy, Ranboo. You come too. We’ll discuss this later when we’re all less spooked.”


	7. Breakfast

The ground floor is quiet. Mid-morning sun filters through the kitchen window, illuminating dust specks and warming the chilly room. Still, that warmth is barely noticed. Everyone sits at the table, lips sealed and eyes cast downwards, hands fidgeting or squeezed together in front of them. Every creak or groan the old building makes is enough to cause a jump or surprised squeak. The only one going about his day at all is Phil, who pours a tall glass of juice for Ranboo and puts out a dish of biscuits. Even then, his expression is hardened with seriousness. No one moves to take any food, instead watching every move Phil makes.

Tommy pulls his legs close to his chest. A low growl escapes his stomach even though he’d eaten barely an hour ago. He eyeballs the biscuits. Immediately, his gut flips at the notion of eating anything. An acidic stinging sensation grips the base of his throat and he bites down to keep it at bay.

If Phil hadn’t swooped in back there, Tommy could’ve been snatched up by the masked man and hauled away to who-knows-where. His throat constricts and a shudder spreads from the top of his head to the tops of his toes. The image of a man approaching on horseback, axe blade reflecting the morning sun, swirls into focus in his mind. The man is like starlight, oddly familiar in the way his cloak glistens and his winged horse gallops with poised grace.

“Phil,” he murmurs, hugging his knees. “What’s a starchild?”

By this point, Phil is preparing a frying pan to make pancakes over the fire. The guardian spirit slaps down a knob of butter onto the warm metal, guiding it around as it melts. When Tommy speaks, tense uncertainty fills the gap between them. For a while, no response comes.

“Can’t you tell me?” Tommy asks. “You all keep going on about ‘starchild’ this and ‘starchild’ that. Can’t you at least tell me?”

A long, deep sigh escapes Phil. He’s turned away, his back to the others, and is pouring batter into the pan. It makes a satisfying hiss as it hits the hot metal. “A starchild,” he says, not looking up, “is someone who isn’t from the groundland. The starchildren live very far away up in the sky, in gigantic floating cities that tour the stratosphere. They never come here. As the man said, it seems as though it’s forbidden for them to do so.”

For once, Tommy looks up. “And I guess I’m a starchild?”

“Yeah. You are.”

The atmosphere grows more strenuous in that moment, like a string pulled taught until only a single thread remains to prevent it from completely snapping. Phil ignores this and continues making breakfast but Tommy uncurls himself, his feet meeting the cold wooden floor. His brow contorts into a frown and he looks around the table.

He’s a starchild. He’s not supposed to be here. If that man ever finds out who he is and takes him away, he’ll be punished. He lets out a shaky breath.

“Why am I here?” he asks under his breath. “Why don’t I remember anything? Who was that guy?” As he asks more and more questions, his voice gradually loses any semblance of calm. His tone becomes shaky and he speaks faster and faster. “Why was he looking for me? Is he gonna take me away? Is he gonna hurt me? Is he-“

He’s cut off by a pair of robed arms suddenly enveloping him. Phil has abandoned the hearth, the pan unattended on the cold stones beside it, and envelops the boy in a protective hug close to his chest. Everything had happened so fast it fills the room with surprised silence. For a moment, all Tommy can do is freeze, feeling the way Phil’s thumb strokes across his shoulder and the way the guardian spirit’s wings enclose around him, hiding him from everything else. It takes a while for the starchild to realise that he’s trembling. Phil’s heartbeat is against his ear — a repetitive, soothing reminder that the spirit is right there with him. The longer Tommy stays there, half sitting on his chair, half reaching out for Phil’s embrace, the more the rest of the world melts away. All the worries. All the anxieties. They all fade, replaced with security. Safety. 

Eventually, once Tommy’s breathing and trembling have died down, Phil loosens his hold and kneels down in front of Tommy. “I want to make this clear now,” he says in a tone that exudes both calmness and surety. “While you live in this house, while you’re with me, I won’t let that man take you. From today onwards, I’ll be your guardian. You’ll be safe.”

He squeezes Tommy’s hands and nods, never once breaking eye contact. In return, Tommy can only swallow and bow his head feebly.

“That necklace,” Phil points to the ring and chain around the starchild’s neck, “will protect you. It cloaks your energy from anyone who senses your presence. To them, you will be a guardian spirit like myself and Wilbur.”

Tommy handles the necklace in his fingers. It doesn’t look like anything special and doesn’t feel magical at all. Then again, that seems to be the point. “So I’m safe here?” he asks unsure if the spirit in front of him really means anything.

Phil smiles. “Yeah. You are,” He mirrors his earlier words.

Across the table, Tubbo is watching from on top of an overturned glass. His little legs dangle down the front, kicking back and forth. When he hears Phil’s words, he can’t help but feel a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s true that this place is probably the safest in the entire valley, and that’s saying a lot since Phil’s job is to be the valley’s protector. There’s something about the observatory though that makes it different. Perhaps it’s the abundance of charms and spells cast to make entrance of unwanted visitors impossible? Perhaps it’s Phil’s presence alone? Whatever it is, Tubbo knows he can let down his guard here. He doesn’t have to worry about a hawk snatching him from a tree branch or a fairy catcher locking him in a glass jar for a collection. Yes, the world beyond observatory conjures only dark images. Dark memories. This building is the antithesis, safe and secure.

The upper floors creak. It sounds like footsteps. At first, the party jump with surprise, heads turning to the ceiling, but then Fundy swivels around to look at the stairs. That’s where the footsteps are heading Everyone else follows suit.

A very groggy, very well-slept Wilbur appears between the banisters, plodding down with weighted footsteps. He’s still wearing his yellow button-up sleepwear and he lets out a large, prolonged yawn into his hand, his face scrunching up and the hints of his voice vocalising. Once he reaches the bottom of the stairs and rubs the sleep out of his eyes, he makes a bee-line for the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Everyone watches, stiff and silent. Five pairs of eyes bore into Wilbur’s back as he noses his way through the fridge, eventually causing his still-developing guardian spirit instincts to kick in as he senses their presences locking in on him. Not bothering to fully turn around, he croons his neck to see a very cautious group situated around the table.

They’re all so serious. He frowns “Did I miss something?” he asks genuinely, shutting the fridge.

To that, Phil stands up. In the elder guardian spirit’s eyes there’s a new-found twinkle of relief; he dodged the table and goes over to his son. “I’ll fill you in later,” he says, before turning to the others, “unless one of you boys wants to do that sooner.”

Heading for the coat-pegs, he takes his bucket hat and fixes it onto his head, pulling down the striped green sides. He then fumbles with a dark green coat specially tailored to accommodate his wings and clasps a heart-shaped brooch charm to his collar area. Finally, he heads towards the front door. Resting in an umbrella stand is a rather out-of-place-looking sword belt. The leather fits perfectly around Phil’s waist, a sheathed blade dangling from his left hip.

“Take care of breakfast for me, will you?” he says to Wilbur and gestures to the pancake mix by the hearth. “I’m going out for while. Patrolling the area. Don’t leave the house while I’m gone, all of you. Find a way to entertain yourselves until I get back.”

With that, he bids them all farewell with the tip of his hat and the door clicks shut behind him. A loud whooshing noise rattles the windows and the shadow of a figure flying away crosses the snow. 

Wilbur remains in the kitchen area for a good few moments, stunned to immobility. When he eventually spares a look at the others, he sees no clarity in their faces either. It seems as though everyone is just as confused by the situation. Nevertheless, the young guardian spirit pulls back a chair and helps himself to the as-of-yet uneaten biscuits. There are chocolate chip cookies, bourbons and jammy dodgers among various others picked out from the biscuit tin on the countertop. Half way through chewing, he leans his chin into his hand and finds Tubbo on the glass in front of him.

“So, little guy,” he flicks the glass, “you gonna tell me what’s gotten you all so spooked? Or maybe you, Ranboo? Fundy? Kid?”

“Oh, I’m Tommy,” Tommy smiles weakly.

“Tommy? Great name!’ Wilbur smiles. “Really suits you, y’know?”

Tommy can’t help but feel a swell of pride in his chest at that comment. He’s sure Tubbo probably feels even more so considering the guy cams up with the name and all, but that’s too much to admit.

“No one gonna tell me?” Wilbur asks, finishing his biscuit and already reaching for a second. “These things are good, by the way. Please, have as many as you want.”

“Sorry,” Ranboo says, his fingers fidgeting, “it’s just...it was a lot to take in, what happened out there just now.”

Fundy lies down on the tabletop, his tail dangling over the edge and swishing about. “We just got threatened by a starchild,” he says. “The guy was a weirdo. Had this axe and threatened us with it.”

Wilbur stops mid-bite. “You serious?” he mumbles through his food, “that sucks. You all okay?”

“Yeah,” Tubbo nods. “Phil interrupted and took care of things. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s gone back out to find the guy though. I haven’t seen him touch the sword-belt for a long time.”

“Neither,” Wilbur agrees, “and saying we can’t leave until he’s back. This must be serious. Do you think it’ll be a while before he’s back? I was planning to visit the village today.”

While the group delves into more general conversation, Tommy watches silently. He’s afraid. Very afraid. The outside world is some kind of enigma, unfamiliar in every way. There’s a strange man who’s after him because he;s supposedly broken a law of the starchildren. Still, this room, this dining table, is oddly refreshing. Oddly calming. Wilbur seems like a decent guy, fun and interesting to talk to. It seems like since he sat down the general mood of everyone has only gotten better. 

Is this the power of a guardian spirit? To put people at ease? To make them feel safe? Tommy isn’t sure. This whole ‘spirit’s’ thing is still rather odd to him. Nevertheless, he can’t deny he’s far less scared than he was out in the snow last night. He’d been all alone in the woods, no memories and no one to call out to. Only the stars had looked upon him, so bright and mesmerising. Yet, those stars were supposedly out to capture him.


	8. Nothing To Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No proof-read today coz I wanna get it out before Tommy’s stream. Don’t think I could handle uploading after the inevitable emotional roller coaster. If today’s stream is really heavy I might not upload on Sunday, just a heads-up. For now, enjoy this chapter!

Midday rolls past its peak and still there’s no sign of Phil. The observatory is quiet, the old foundations of the building occasionally creaking under pressure from the wind. After breakfast and a short-lived game of snap wherein no one actually wins anything, the group of boys eventually drift into their own areas of the house. Fundy goes back to bed, this time sprawling out on his back over the covers in the third floor guest room. The bed is still unmade and now winter fox fur is getting everywhere. Wilbur is in his room, curled up in a decorated cubby hole filled with with blankets, cushions and orange glowing crystal lights. He’s skimming an old novel, the pages of the leather-bound book yellowing and the writing faded. Downstairs, Ranboo is scribbling notes in some sort of pocket journal at the dining table, humming absentmindedly to himself while twirling the tip of his thin, long tail around his finger. Over at the kitchen, among the herb bunches, Tubbo is sorting through a sprig of dried rosemary. The best cuttings he pulls from the larger stem, hoisting them over his shoulder — his house is in dire need of new cooking supplies, not that he uses them much.

And then there’s Tommy. He’s up in his room, sitting on the windowsill and looking out over the meadow. He’s opened the window again and the chill of the air is a welcoming nip on his cheeks. Technically he hasn’t left the house so Phil shouldn’t be mad. It isn’t as cold as the morning, the early afternoon sun shining down on the valley without a cloud to block it. Even then though, the winter keeps it close to the horizon, not letting it reach the heights of the sky like it would do in summer. Rather, it rests in limbo between the sky’s peak and the mountain ridges, doing its best to warm the frigid valley in vain.

Having sat there for a long while, the layout of this side of the valley is much clearer to Tommy. The meadow takes up most of the space, though it’s nothing more than a sheet of white right now with occasional hills and ditches in it. On the far side however there are several dark wooden structures — houses — sticking out of the snow. Grey smoke curls into the air from stone chimneys, dancing into the sky. Behind them the ground elevates gradually; there’s some kind of cave entrance a little way up the steep hillside, though it’s hard to make out from such a distance. From there, a shallow grove of trees cuts the valley off from the mountainside, almost as if it were a border to the valley’s confines. Considering how much magic there is in this world, it very well could be.

There’s nothing to do here. Tommy itches his elbow, chewing his lip and huffing out a spiritless breath that turns to mist. Out there is a whole world full of weird and wonderful things he has yet to see, yet here he is cooped up in this room with the taste of freedom hanging just out of reach. He wants to run through the snow all the way over to those houses or to the cave or into the woods. There could be a lot more people like the strange spirits stuck with him in this observatory for him to meet.

Pulling the window shut, he hops down from the sill and takes a good look around the room. Luckily it’s much cooler than it had been this morning; the fireplace is no more than a pile of ash and soot in the hearth, the stone walls capture little heat and the sunlight isn’t in direct view of the window. Up above, a lattice of rafters keeps the roof of this part of the building up. The roof slopes upwards towards the main building, lined with insulation. Upon closer inspection, a series of wooden boards are nailed into some of the higher beams, creating a kind of hidden nook. There’s no ladder to get up there but it clocks as though it could fit two people with ease.

A spark of imagination glints in the starchild’s eyes. The top of the bedroom’s wardrobe comes close to one of the lower rafters. From there he could climb up onto an adjacent beam and, if he reaches out enough, he could haul himself over onto that nook. No one’s around to tell him not to. No one had said he couldn’t do something like this. The beginnings of a devious grin curl onto his lips and he looks around for something he can use to climb on top of the wardrobe.

Ten minutes and a flimsy construction of pillows, drawers and books later and Tommy scrambles onto the top of the wardrobe. As he pushes his foot off the tower though, the entire wobbling structure goes crashing down. Books sprawl everywhere with a thud, opening to random pages, meanwhile the pillows bounce across the floor in all directions.

“Nothing happened!” Tommy yells before he can think.

For several moments he just crouches stiffly, eyes glued to the door which is sitting ajar. No one comes for him though. It’s difficult to tell whether that’s ‘lucky’ or ‘unfortunate’. Nevertheless, he continues his mission upwards onto the first rafter. It’s surprisingly sturdy, carrying his weight well. He’s about to reach for the second beam when suddenly he senses a presence.

A very small presence.

“I heard something?” Tubbo’s voice reaches his ears.

Tommy yelps, immediately almost losing his position and nearly falling to the floor. At the last second he saves himself, though his heart is still racing when he rights his balance and darts his head around to find the fairy. Tubbo, as it turns out, is hovering a little way above him, legs crossed in mid air and his hands resting on his feet.

“You scared the living daylights out of me!” Tommy huffs. “I could’ve fallen and died! Would you have liked it if I’d died? Huh? Yeah I thought not- ...wait, what’s your name again?”

Tubbo’s wings make a surprised whizzing noise. “I’m Tubbo,” he says, his voices lined with irritation. “Didn’t you hear earlier?”

“Well you never told me,” Tommy crosses his arms and scowls.

“I swear Phil used my name multiple times around you. Weren’t you listening?’

Tommy opens his mouth to retort but stops himself. Rather than a frown of annoyance, his frown is now one of scrutiny. He looks down, his nose scrunching up and his fingers tapping his upper arms. After a short while, he shakes his head and looks back at Tubbo. “No,” he shrugs. “I wasn’t listening.”

He then goes back to his original plan of climbing up to the nook. The second beam is easy to hoist himself up to and he swings his leg over the side. Now all he has to do is reach up a bit higher and he’ll be in range of the wooden boards. The only thing is, he’ll have to stand up for that.

A single glance downwards is enough to flip his stomach. It’s definitely going to hurt if he slips and falls. He might even crash though the floor into the kitchen. Still, the burning curiosity to see if there’s anything up in the nook coupled with his excess boredom is enough to beat down the nerves enough to get him to slowly manoeuvre his legs so he’s crouching.

By now, Tubbo has caught on to what Tommy is trying to do. The lanky boy looks ridiculous as he begins to stand, head darting between the boards and his own feet. In a moment of quick thinking, Tubbo flies up to where the starchild is trying to go. Tommy’s eyes burn into the fairy’s back, a whole host of jealous insults about wings and flying barely held back. When Tubbo lets out a comically over the top gasp, it only serves to make Tommy’s irritation bubble up even more.

“Oh my, Tommy boy!” Tubbo exclaims, “you aren’t going to believe what’s up here!”

“Oh piss off, will you?” Tommy grumbles. “Not everyone can fly like you.”

“No really, it’s very cool what’s up here,” Tubbo now keeps his voice relatively calm and nonchalant, taunting the poor boy below him. “I’m sure if you can get up here it’ll totally be worth it.”

The babble of curses that escapes Tommy after that are too good to ignore. They’re not creative at all, filled with the most basic swears and references to flying. After a short while, it’s clear that Tommy hasn’t moved an inch since he started yelling and now he’s balancing on the wooden beam while shouting like a madman at a fairy too small to see from such a distance.

Eventually, Tubbo laughs off the stupidity of this whole situation and flits down right in front of Tommy’s face. The starchild is as red as a beet with pent up anger, scowling at the fairy in front of him.

“I’ll help you up, don’t worry,” this time Tubbo sounds far more genuine.

And he is. He lightly taps the tip of Tommy’s nose. As he does so, a faint stream of tiny lights erupt out of his fingertips into Tommy’s skin. The lights travel through his face, down his neck and into every part of his body, swirling in a myriad of patterns with a faint glow. Then, before Tommy has a chance to say anything or even fully realise what’s happening, his body lifts up off the wooden beam. Up and up he rises, as weightless as a helium balloon, Tubbo buzzing by his shoulder the entire time.

It’s only once his feet are level with the floorboards that his shocked trance finally breaks. “Holy shit!” Cursing is all he can manage to say. “What the fuck?! This is amazing!”

He steps out of the air onto the boards. The moment both his feet firmly plant on on the floor, the golden swirls vanish from his skin and suddenly his body feels a whole lot heavier. So much so that he sinks to his knees, his legs shaking. His hands hit the dusty wood beneath him, the feeling of the old material rough and unpleasant on his skin.

“How the hell did you do that?” he asks Tubbo, who lands on the floor in front of him.

Tubbo’s face contorts in surprised confusion. “I’m a fairy...” he says. “All fairies can do that.”

“Yeah well, I don’t think I’ve ever met a fairy before,” Tommy replies.

Tubbo’s antennae twitch. “That’s fair, actually.”

The hidden nook is actually a bit smaller than initially thought. Tommy can fit himself on it with ease but getting a second fully-sized person to find room would probably be difficult. It’s good then that Tubbo isn’t fully-sized.

The fairy hadn’t been completely lying when he’d made his overly dramatic exclamation. Indeed there is actually something up here, though perhaps it isn’t a monumental find. There’s a wooden box draped in a grimy dust cover at the back of the nook, warped from years of damp and covered in cobwebs. As soon as Tommy lays eyes on it, curiosity snatches his mind and he scoots over to it on his knees. 

The dust cover is more grey than white now and has several splotches of mould mottling the material. Tubbo keeps a distance, settling on Tommy’s shoulder and eyeing the cobwebs cautiously. Getting caught in one would be a hassle on the best of days and a fairy’s death wish on the worst. Most of them are old though and disintegrate when Tommy pulls the cover off the box, discarding the damp fabric next to him.

Inside the box is a pile of little books, all in various states of disrepair and faded with age. Tommy pulls out the topmost one — a brown notebook with a red ribbon bookmark — turning it over in his hands as if he’s discovered some sort of ancient artefact meanwhile Tubbo watches on with intrigue. Opening to the first page, a scrawl of old handwriting covers the first page, the black ink having faded to a watery grey and the page riddled with spots of black-blue mould.

“What’s this?” Tommy asks, holding the book up to Tubbo.

“A book?” The answer is so obvious.

“No, I mean what does it say?”

“Umm, let me see...I’m not the best at reading,” Tubbo squints at the text. “I think it says...Day One. I decided...to keep this so that I can...document my...except uses? Does that say except uses?”

Tommy just shrugs. “Don’t know.” His voice is quieter, more sheepish. He looks off to the side as he speaks, face scrunching up for a moment before he turns back.

That’s when the penny drops. “Tommy,” Tubbo says, “can you read?”


	9. The Riders of White Horses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry I couldn’t get a chapter up on Sunday! I was busy with irl stuff and didn’t have time to get everything in order on time. Hopefully I’ll be back on schedule from now on though. Enjoy the chapter :D

The sun is setting. Phil takes a deep breath, his thumb rubbing back and forth along the hilt of his sword. That man hasn’t come back yet but he very well could; the stench of malevolent spirits permeates the air. Perching atop a rocky outcrop in the forest, he can sense the entire valley with ease. The observatory is safe and no one has left. Good. The village seems to have been left alone as well.

Perhaps the man really is gone for good? Even with the presence of something strange lingering, nothing has made itself known. Then again, that would probably be the point of a mission such as the man’s. To the starchildren, right now Phil is an adversary getting in the way of finding their fugitive, even if they themselves aren’t aware of it. In a best-case scenario, it will stay that way. In a few days time, the star kingdom that flies over the valley will leave, moving on to other parts of space. Unless that man wants to be left behind, he’ll need to go home by that point. Then, the valley will once again be free of this choking presence.

Still, it’s getting late. The boys will be wanting dinner and Wilbur most certainly cannot be trusted with the hearth lest the entire building burn down in seconds. Spreading his grey wings wide, the guardian spirit takes off. The crisp air welcomes him back to the sky, feathers catching the wind and billowing with every flap. Up and up he soars until he catches a draft. Then, he dives. His wings tuck in, encasing him. The treetops fall ever-closer, their evergreen tops sharp and needle-like poking out of the ground.

At the last second, he stretches his wings out. A harsh whistling noise catches under them. Now, he’s skimming the top of the forest, hands only inches away from the trees. His eyes dart between the branches, searching like a hawk for any creatures wandering through the woods below. Nothing is apparent, however, and the undergrowth is unmoving.

It will take about five minutes to fly from here to the observatory. By then the sun will be completely gone and the moon will be visible in a blue-white crescent, surrounded by far off stars. At night, a kind of serenity washes over the woods and meadows — a peaceful reminder that all those who live in the valley can sleep easy knowing Phil will be here to protect them.

And protect them Phil will.

It’s been nearly four hundred years since the last sole guardian had died. Back then, hundreds of spirits had sought the valley, escaping the greedy hands of humans trying to capture and sell them. Many a time entire swathes of refugees had found solace in the glades at the foot of the mountains and many more had boarded boats to far off lands at the docks by the cliffs. The previous guardian spirit had been a kind soul, helping all those who’d come to him. Even though Phil had only been a young spirit back then, picking up new knowledge of the world every day, he’d resolved to be as good of a spirit and protector as his predecessor.

Something feels off. A presence. No, multiple presences. They’re in the meadow up ahead. Phil’s face hardens to a scowl, his hand curling around his sword and his gaze flicking to his new destination. Whoever those presences were, they emitted the same malevolence as the man. All their presences combined, however, don’t quite meet the pure intensity of anger and hatred the man had emitted. Despite this, a threat is a threat and Phil isn’t prepared to let anything happen to his home, the place he’d sworn to protect, under any circumstances.

There they are. Three figures. All of them are riding pristine horses with azure speckling, silky tails and manes swirling in the breeze with an ethereal quality. From so far away, there are very few details the guardian spirit can make out besides hair colours and pure white outfits. Soaring down towards them, it’s clear they’ve also caught notice of him.

As he lands a short distance away, on the nearby hilltop that overlooks the rest of the meadow, the three figures look between one another and speak words that he can’t hear. He spares a glance towards the observatory, which stands out with its dark wood and domed roof a way off on the flat stretch of meadow that reaches out towards the sea. By the time he turns back the figures are riding towards him; he grips his sword, his eyes narrowing. They’ve spotted him.

The horses whinny as their riders pull on their reins, forcing them to a stop in a circular formation around Phil. The first thing of note is that two of these three figures aren’t masked like the man. Only one is, and even then his eyes are visible through a specially crafted slit in the design. As for the other two, their faces, their expressions, are out in the open for all to see — hardened scowls and lifeless eyes that glare down with calculated malice. Much like the man they’re all dressed in white, though this time their garments are thin and look better suited for the summer than midwinter — body-fitting tunics and pants embroidered with swirling patterns that are becoming all too familiar as a staple of starchild fashion. All of the riders are barefoot as well, despite their metal stirrups likely being frozen to the touch.

“Riders.” Phil speaks first. “Starchildren. I know why you’re here. What you’re looking for doesn’t exist in this valley. We’re peaceful folk here, only wishing to live our lives away from needless corruption. Please, if you wish to remain here, abandon your mission and you will be welcomed by everyone here. If not, I have to ask you to return to your kingdom.”

The first rider, a black-haired man with the beginnings of beard scruff and a bandana tied loosely around his forehead, stifles a snort. Raising an eyebrow, he brushes a finger along the

head of an axe secured to his back. “Don’t talk as if you know us, Groundlander,” he sneers. “Our orders come directly from the Star King. No starchild is to be left behind.”

The second rider nods in agreement. This man is blond, wearing a golden chain around his neck that glistens in the evening sunlight. “We will continue our search until there’s no debate about the boy’s location.”

A burst of anger sparks in Phil’s chest but he tenses his resolve and pushes it down. “And you promise to hurt no soul in the valley while you’re here?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“Yes,” the third rider says. This one is the masked man; up close his mask has a series of patterns engraved onto it. His skin is also darker than the others’. “If you let us go about our business without hindering us, we promise to not harm a single soul in your valley.”

Behind him, Phil hears the black-haired man’s grip on his reins tighten. That man’s spirit also seems to fluctuate with disappointment, as if he’d wanted to cause bloodshed. As if he would try to do so despite what the other rider had said. A person like that isn’t welcome in this valley.

“You will away from everyone,” Phil warns, drawing his sword and spinning around, “because if you so much as lay a scratch on anyone under my protection, you’ll all be dead before you can fly home to your castle in the sky.”

It takes the black-haired man a while to even process that Phil is even talking to him. When he does, once again he stifles a laugh and even rolls his eyes, crossing his arms and straightening his posture. “You talking to me?” he asks. “Okay, okay, I won’t hurt anyone. If you can tell what I wanted to do just like that, I guess you’re the real deal then? I don’t know much about you groundland spirits. Always thought you were either a bunch of weaklings or bloodthirsty monsters.”

“I’d say the second applies more to you here than me,” Phil spits.

“Of course not! Now I know you’re serious I won’t try anything. I swear on the Veil of the Star Kingdom.”

It doesn’t sound completely convincing. Phil doesn’t drop his glare, his sword blade glistening as he handles it, lifting it up. However, for now he merely sheaths it. If these guys try anything he’ll definitely be there. For now though, he’ll let them go about their business. Hopefully the other two will keep this guy in check; they at least seem like people he can reason with.

The blond rider casts a look towards the sunset. “We should get going, Sapnap,” he says. “Ponk, go find Dream. Tell him we plan to search the west side all night.”

“Of course,” the masked rider nods his head. Then without another word he kicks his ankles into his horse’s sides and sends it galloping back down the hill, away from the unplanned meeting that had just taken place.

“Punz,” the black-haired man — Sapnap — says, “you go towards the mountain. I’ll head for the cliffs. Groundlander,” he turns his attention to Phil, “don’t get in our way. We’ll be gone by the week’s end whether we find anyone or not.”

And with that, both the other riders take their leave, the snow kicking up behind them in a flurry of white.

For a few minutes Phil simply stands there, engraining the presences he’d just felt into his memory. Now, whenever he casts his senses, he’ll see exactly where they are, who they might run into and how close to the observatory they may come. Techno will need to know about this, if anything to watch over the lake and forest.

It would be so much easier to just attack the starchildren now and get them out of the valley. Several times, the urge to slice his sword down the black-haired man’s body had entered Phil’s mind, barely held back by constraint. Hoeever, he can’t attack them first, not when he’s unprovoked. Not only might it alert the other starchildren that their fugitive in currently in the care of the guardian spirit, but they might also end up sending their legions to attack the valley in retaliation for a death of their own. Guardian spirits protect. They don’t attack unless they need to. For now, Phil will monitor the movements of the riders and if they so much as step a hair out of line, he’ll exert vengeance like they’ve never known before.

As for right now though, his first priority is getting home. Taking off once more, it’s a swift minute-long glide down to the front porch, the force of his beating wings rattling the windows as usual and his feet sinking into the snow before the doorstep. There’s no need to knock so he heaves a deep sigh, looking forward to the warmth of the inside, and puts a hand on the stained glass window in front of him. Under his breath, he murmurs a quick spell. The locks and mechanisms keeping the front door shut from the inside slide and creak, one by one unlocking with a satisfying ‘click’ noise until they’re all open.

“I’m back,” Phil announces, letting himself in. His voice is raised in case the others are upstairs or dispersed throughout the observatory. “Sorry I was gone so long. I had-“

“Why the hell does it have to look like that?!” a boisterous voice groans from over at the dining table.

“Because it’s ‘y’, Tommy,” Wilbur’sfamiliar voice replies, strained but ultimately lacking an overabundance of annoyance. “It sometimes makes an ‘ee’ sound.”

“This is so complicated,” Tommy holds his head in his hands and scowls.

At the dining table, everyone seems to be gathered around the hidden starchild in their midst. The tabletop is towering with books and pieces of paper and it looks as though Wilbur has taken one of the quills from Phil’s office for Tommy draw something with, an ink pot sitting close by. Ranboo is loitering behind Tommy’s chair, watching as the tip of the quill dances in the air while Tommy very messily writes something down. Fundy meanwhile has been relegated to a chair opposite, his top paws holding his upper body above the table while his hind legs stretch to keep him up.

Tubbo is the first to notice that Phil is back. The fairy flits over from the table, grinning from ear to ear as if he’s just been laughing non-stop for several minutes. “Welcome back!” he says, landing in Phil’s open palms. “We’re teaching Tommy how to write his name!”


End file.
